


Easier When You Love Someone

by Brill (HalfLight)



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Body Worship, F/M, Rimming, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfLight/pseuds/Brill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps the first step to loving their own bodies is loving each other’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easier When You Love Someone

**Author's Note:**

> I like Fem!Aoba, but understand that genderswaps/sexswaps can be (and in a lot of cases, are) transphobic. I decided to try something a bit different as a result.
> 
> (I have tagged this fic with body dysphoria just in case it does fit into that--I apologize for any offense I may cause.)

Koujaku’s always been a light sleeper.  But he’s had a long day, and his light snores tell Aoba that he’s far beyond the reach of sudden movements and sound.  
  
It lets her slip from his embrace without waking him and tiptoe to the bathroom.  It gives her a chance to brush her hair behind her ear and lean forward, studying herself in the mirror.  She takes in the angles of her chin and cheekbones.  It doesn’t fit the stubborn eyeliner that clings to her lashes, or the ghost of lipstick at the edges of her mouth.  
  
She stands straight, drawing her spine up, and turns to the side.  She cups her breasts through the kimono she threw on--Koujaku’s, of course, tangled with her jeans on the floor.  Her fingers stir up his scent as they smooth down her body, mapping its contours, comparing them to the women who flock to him every day.  
  
Her hands come away and she looks at her fingertips.  She shuts her eyes, using what she felt to sketch an image of herself in her mind.  She adds muscle where it’s needed, takes away fat where she probably shouldn’t.  
  
And when she’s done, she still finds herself lacking.  
  
“I’m starting to wonder if you’re doing this on purpose.”  
  
Aoba jolts, even though Koujaku’s voice in her ear is all scarlet velvet and soft contours, wafting over her cheek and making her think of cigarette smoke.  “I thought you were asleep,” she says.  She casts her gaze around the bathroom, forcing herself to finally let her eyes rest on a knot in the wood-paneled walls.  Anywhere that’s not the mirror.  
  
Even so, her peripheral vision alerts her as Koujaku bows his head to kiss the hickeys blossoming in the crook of her neck.  She swallows when Koujaku lifts his gaze--just his eyes, his forehead pressed against the back of her head--to meet her reflection’s stare.  “You’re not nearly as stealthy as you think,” Koujaku murmurs, his hand creeping up her belly.  “I usually don’t mind when you wear my clothes, but I’m usually awake to enjoy it.”  
  
There’s an invitation braided in his voice, locked into place next to lust and a vast, almost embarrassing affection.  It’s impossible to not respond to that; her body moves on its own, shifting as his nose grazes her cheek.  She turns her head, their noses bumping together, their breaths intermingling.    
  
She’s seen that look before, when he’s working and not aware that she’s spotted him while she’s making a delivery.  
  
From the corner of her eye, the two of them in the mirror make her think of puzzle pieces forced to fit together where their edges don’t align.  
  
She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye.  “I--I should go home,” Aoba says, slipping from the warmth of his arms.  She gathers his kimono tight around her body and does not look behind her.  
  
“Aoba, it’s 2am.  It’s not--”  
  
“I’m fine,” she snaps.  She lets the kimono slip from her fingers and onto the floor; she feels about in the dark for her shirt, plucking her panties from the floor int he process.  She slips them on without ceremony, shifting when fingertips graze the small of her back.  
  
“At least let me walk you home, it’s not--”  
  
“Don’t,” she says.  
  
Too late, she hears the weakness cracking across her voice and spreading over her skin like pond ice beneath a boot.  It’s even worse when Koujaku draws her down onto the futon and holds them back-to-chest, folding her against him with strong arms, burrowing his nose into her hair.  That a chuckle from somewhere deep inside of her, a sound constructed of crinkling cellophane and packing peanuts.  
  
“Talk to me,” Koujaku murmurs, his arms tightening around her waist.  
  
Aoba opens her mouth, but there’s no words waiting to come out.  She instead rests her hands on top of Koujaku’s; they relax, and she pulls them away from her body, watching the way her pale fingers curl into the gaps between his scarred.  
  
“You’ve always had such beautiful hands,” she murmurs, the words slipping easily from her this time.  
  
His laughter is an amused huff against the back of her head.  “I like the way they look in yours,” he says, shifting his grasp so that he’s holding her hands in both of her palms.  Her own hands look too big for her too-straight arms.    
  
“Is that true?”  Her fingers tighten, trapping his in place.  There’s an itch in her chest, a disquiet that makes her belly churn.  She presses her lips together as the words come with disturbing ease, gilding her throat with things she doesn’t want to say.  
  
“Aoba?”  
  
She hates his voice for that, the way he draws out the words she tries to keep trapped.  
  
“You have so many choices,” she whispers.  
  
“...What?”  
  
“You could literally pick them from the sidewalk,” she murmurs, and pulls away.  “Any of them.  You’ve done it before.  They’re--they’re real.”  
  
Koujaku says nothing.  He doesn’t move.  Aoba wraps her arms around herself, glaring at Koujaku from the corner of her eye.  
  
“I’m not a real...well, I’m not a girl, am I?” she says.  “I even said so myself when we were kids.”  She shoves her face into her hands.  
  
“Aoba--”  
  
“And I don’t even look real,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut as they start to sting.  “I’ve just got those pills, and my outfits.  I can’t compare to--”  
  
A hand curls over her chin, pulling her head up, and soft lips swallow the rest of her blubbering.  It’s more of a question than a kiss, but she still opens her mouth to draw in a ragged breath, letting him twine his tongue with hers.  
  
Koujaku finally pulls back with a wet, soft sound, and Aoba blinks up at him as he reaches down to rub the side of her eye with a thumb.  He has no right to look that concerned.  “How could you think that?” he asks--and it’s not right, how hurt he sounds.  
  
“My body’s so fucked up.”  
  
“I love you and I love your body.”  
  
She scowls at him, can’t decide if she’s trying to slap him or cup his face.  In the end, she huffs and throws herself down onto the futon, facing away from him.  She doesn’t try to slap him away when he presses her body against his.  Maybe she should, but she’s too tired to care.  
  
“Aoba,” he whispers, and the proximity of his whisper makes her jump; the warmth of his breath carries a hint of cigarette smoke and mint.  “Remember after I cut your hair?  Remember when we took that shower together?”  
  
Aoba doesn’t speak, but her blush is so deep that she feels she must be lighting up the room.  Koujaku’s fingers dance along the curve of her hip.  
  
“I still remember how your fingers felt against my tattoos.”  He sighs, nuzzling Aoba’s temple.  “I thought my heart would beat out of my chest—you didn’t even seem scared at all, though you had every right to be.”  
  
“You’re giving yourself more credit than you deserve,” she says, her tone flat and her eyes resting on a crack in the ceiling.  He chuckles and nips the skin below her earlobe.  
  
“That’s a mean thing to say, Aoba.”    
  
“It’s true, isn’t it?”  Silence.  Aoba doesn’t move, and she’s scared that she’s ruined something, that her words have clawed gaping holes into the delicate atmosphere.  She starts to shift up onto her elbows.  “Koujak--”  
  
Koujaku presses against her; an indignant squawk escapes her throat as he nuzzles the skin below her chin.  
  
“You made me feel more cherished then than I’ve ever felt in my whole life.”  
  
Aoba’s mouth open, but she can’t draw breath; Aoba reaches up, his eyes meeting hers as he runs his fingertips through her hair.  
  
“You’ve been with other girls,” she insists.  “Girls who were born girls.”  
  
“You’re what I want.”  
  
“How can you say that?  I’m a frea--”  
  
“Don’t,” Koujaku says, cupping his hand over her mouth in a loose grip, and she falls silent.  “Don’t ever use that word to describe yourself.”  Koujaku’s hand slides down to splay against her belly, pressing her so that she rolls onto her back, looking up into his eyes.  “You’re Aoba.  That’s all I care about.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“You treasured me.  Even the parts that don’t deserve treasuring.”  Koujaku’s whisper seems strained, as though it’s struggling its way through a pinhole.  “Didn’t I tell you I’d treasure you, too?”  
  
The words of his promise are softer than he has any right to be, contrasting with his rough scars and the sharp, black curls of his tattoos.  Her eyelids flutter shut as his hand slides up to cup her cheek, her body growing weak as his lips move closer.  
  
She sighs when their lips meet, parting her lips and letting him in.  
  
Koujaku tilts his head to the side, answering her sigh with a slight moan as he presses his tongue past her lips and against her teeth.  She answers, opening her mouth and letting her own tongue slip out to meet his.   
  
Aoba feels, more than hears, his hum in her bones, and it’s a beautiful sound.  
  
Her hands reach up to claw and clutch at his skin, touching bare skin and tattooed, inked patterns alike.  He responds in kind, both of his hands reaching up to cup her jaw before sliding down, fingertips feathering along her throat.  “Koujaku--that’s--” she tries to start as his fingertips brush along against her Adam’s apple.  
  
“Shh,” Koujaku whispers, and his hands become loose, his thumbs rubbing circles against the congealing, stinging lump in her throat.  “Let me make you feel good.”  
  
And his eyes are so sincere, his smile so warm.  His knee presses between her legs, against her crotch, waiting to see if she wants to accept the affection he offers her.  
  
“I don’t know why I let you do this to me,” she grumbles, but parts her legs in response, leans up to kiss him as his eyes light up.  He tastes of morning breath and the cigar she caught him enjoying earlier.  It’s gross, and in sharp contrast to the smoothness of his voice and body; she loves it anyway.  
  
“So you want this?” he asks, pulling away to press their foreheads together.  
  
“It’s fine, I—”  
  
“ _Aoba_.”  Koujaku’s eyes are so intense and bright that she fears they will burn her. “Do you _want_ this?”  
  
His fingers are shaking, frozen in place just above her breast.  And she knows those hands, all hard scars from impassive Rib battles and carrying his sword, will stop if she says so.  She shivers out a ghost of a breath, taking his hand and guiding it down, feeling his fingers spread and cup her breasts.  “Yes,” she says.  “Just be gentle.  No hickeys where anyone can see them this time.”  
  
Koujaku’s mouth splits into a devil’s grin as he squeezes, quick, just enough to set her belly fluttering with heat.  He ducks his head down, licking at smooth, warming skin, catching a nipple in his teeth.  “I make no promises,” he says, his voice a tease enriched by the lust shading its tones.  
  
She arches up into his hands, gasping as her body begins to awaken and unfurl beneath the lips trailing over her collarbone, the teeth that venture forth to nip at her skin.  His fingers play over her panties, the movement at once thoughtful and teasing.  “Koujaku--fuck, just--”  
  
And whatever else she wants to say gets lost as his fingers travel up and skitter at the skin just beneath her belly button, making her tremble down to the marrow in her bones.  A droplet of sweat sneaks past her hairline, and the way he looks her body up and down as he hooks his fingers in flimsy elastic and pulls her panties down and off of her makes it hard to draw breath.  
  
Aoba opens herself up in every way she can--in uncurled fingers, in the way her arms loop around his neck, inviting him down to feel all of her.  
  
Koujaku kisses her neck, the space just above where her collarbones meet, and it feels just like dissolving, surrounding him in a thick fog.  He kisses down the swell of her breasts, taking one of her nipples in his mouth, and she keens and ruts against the leg pressing beneath her thighs.  His hands are so slow, and sweet against her body.  
  
Koujaku drives her mad with slow kisses and a gentle, insistent pressure at the juncture of her thighs--not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease.  “Kou--mm, Koujaku--”  Her voice is a furious, frustrated whisper into the shell of his ear, her fingers curling over his shoulders as he shifts himself to settle between her legs, his tongue darting out to taste her hipbone.    
  
His hands shift down to curl around her thighs, drawing them up to hook around his shoulders.  And it’s maddening, how he’s able to contain so much in such a gentle sound.  He watches her face as his fingers flit at the inside of her thighs, parting her legs and exposing everything for him to lick and nip and suck at his leisure.  
  
And she’s hot for him, warm and open and good as he brushes teasing fingertips along her cock, but it’s not enough, never enough.  “Ah—” and Aoba’s voice is a keening plea as he pulls back, grinning.  “Oh—that’s cruel—not fair—”

“But you’re so lovely like this,” Koujaku whispers, licking his lips, breaking the connection between them.  And she almost crushes his head between her thighs, almost suffocates him with how much she wants his mouth on her.  
  
But then Koujaku’s hands dip down beyond her sight, fingertips probing and curious.  Nervousness and a little aroused thrill shiver down her spine; she licks her lips as she shivers and fists the sheets.  “Still--not fair,” she pants as devilish embers dance in his eyes.  
  
“Do you want me to stop?”  
  
And she’s about to snap at him that of course she doesn’t, that he’s just being an asshole, that he needs to just--  
  
He ducks his head lower, his tongue sneaking out to lap at her as just his tongue presses against her ass—not penetrating, just pressing—and all she can do is arch her entire being into his mouth.  Aoba’s cry is a prayer, wordless and desperate, and she feels Koujaku’s grin as he fastens his mouth to her, a soft moan slipping from his throat.  She feels the warmth of his breath against her, a soft groan slipping from his throat as he eats her out.  
  
“Ah - !”  
  
She glances down, regretting her decision when she realizes the smug bastard is smiling—not a smile she can see, not with what he’s doing to her right now, but his eyes are sparkling and the edges of his eyes crinkle, and she shivers with desire when she hears the telltale _snick_ of the lube bottle’s cap.    
  
“Koujaku, oh my God.”  She marvels at her ability to string together a sentence--perhaps it’s because he’s drawn his fingers out of her body, though he insists on lapping at and kissing her.  “I promise, if you keep teasing me I will throw you right out the window and into the arms of your adoring fans!”  
  
Koujaku makes an obscene sound as he pulls away, and smirks up at her.  “Cruel words.”    
  
“If you think I’m joking, I-- _ah_ -”  
  
Aoba’s face flushes crimson at the sound that escapes her, wet and drenched with want, and Koujaku echoes with a smug hum as he presses one finger inside of her, now slick with lube and wriggling right up against her most sensitive spot.  His mouth moves up to mouth at the underside of her cock, his tongue carving indistinct shapes against the skin.  
  
Aoba arches up against him, hands clawing at soft cotton as her mouth falls open in a sloppy, jagged gasp.  “Kouja--” she starts, but then he’s surging up her body again, fingers curled in her short hair as he presses their lips together. Koujaku’s taste simmers just beneath the flavors his mouth has collected this night--it’s filthy, but her body’s too drunk on him to care.  She arches up against him as her fingers slide down his shoulders to scratch at his back.  
  
He hisses, pulling away, but he’s smiling as he shifts onto his back, pressing them together cheek to cheek, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.  “Hurts a little,” he says, an admission laced in his murmur, nuzzling the shell of her ear as his gaze shifts down.  
  
Aoba follows his gaze down her chest, her belly, all the way down.  And she realizes she’s seeing what he does--her tiny breasts, her too-large legs, the--well.  The things that remind her that the world didn’t see a lady, once upon a time.  Her cheeks flare and she swallows, trying to cover herself--but of course he’s right there, rolling back over, straddling her waist as he catches her wrists in his hands.    
  
“You’re gorgeous.  You know that, right?”  
  
His words steal the breath from her lungs and make her face boil.  And he’s so very clever; he laces their fingers together, her hands traitorous in how easily they accept his questioning grip.  He shifts to rest between her legs again, but he’s so gentle and so soft that she could push him away.    
  
But she doesn’t want to.  
  
A small, choked sound slips from her mouth as he presses small kisses across her cheekbone, beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck.  
  
“Don’t hide from me,” he says, and Koujaku’s plea is a hot, desperate whisper, words seared into the juncture between neck and shoulder.  “Please, don’t--I know how hard it is to love your own body, okay?  It’s easier if I can love yours.”  
  
_...Oh.  
  
_ His tone is soft, his words trembling.  He lifts his head to meet her eyes, and her breath catches in her throat.  She takes in his gentle eyes, his unforrowed brow, the way his nose nearly touches hers.  They don’t say anything; Aoba doesn’t fight as she slips her grip from his, reaching up to push his bangs aside, to let their eyes meet and expose Koujaku’s tattoo to her.  
  
With him so close--with his eyes boring into hers, and the gentleness and openness of his demeanor--she can’t deny him, eyes fluttering shut with a sigh as their mouths meet again, as Koujaku slips his fingers inside her again, making her shiver and seek out the lube.   Ah—there it is.  It’s cool, slick against her fingertips as she squeezes it out.  She rubs her hands, warming it with friction.  She slips her hands down his body, seeking out-- _there_.  
  
Koujaku grunts when her hands find his cock and squeeze.  Aoba loves his prick, loves the way it feels in her hand, the veins and ridges familiar as she gets him worked up.  “Aoba,” Koujaku says, and his voice is the sound of stones rubbing against one another.  “I need-”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Aoba pulls her hands back once Koujaku’s dripping with lube, searing hot and silky in her grasp.   She wipes her hand on the bed and then curls it up by her face, tilting her face away and smiling up at Koujaku.  From the corner of her eyes, his face flushes crimson.  She shuts her eyes, almost expecting a nosebleed.  
  
Her eyes snap open when a snort escapes him instead, and she finds his shoulders trembling with laughter, his eyes squeezed shut.  “Why you--!”  
  
“Sorry, sorry!” he holds up his hands, biting his lip as she glares up at him.  “I just—the way you wiped your hands and wrinkled your nose--it’s cute.”  
  
“Hmph.”  She pouts, half-ready to bop him on the nose.  But Koujaku’s hand is on her hip before she has time to object, and he rolls her onto her side, settling in behind her.    
  
“Sorry, I just--I think it’s sexy and cute.  And funny.”  
  
“...You’re washing the sheets as punishment,” she says, sneaking a look at him from the corner of her eye as he lifts one of her thighs from behind.  
  
“I’ll accept, as long as you forgive me.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  Aoba sighs, the sound a long, rushed susurrus of heat as she lets her eyes slide shut.  “I’m just--I’ve needed you for a while now, and--”  
  
She lets the sentence hang, reaching up to cup and caress her own breasts, sighing sweetly as the other hand sneaks down to take herself in hand.  She gives herself a tease—just a flutter of fingertips to complement the flutter of her lashes—and she feels it in her bones when he snaps, cursing as he lines his cock up with her ass.  
  
“When you act like that, I can’t--Aoba--”  
  
She keeps her eyes shut, even as Koujaku teases her by rubbing her asshole with the tip of his cock.  He’s waiting on purpose, she thinks, whining and bucking her hips, he’s being cruel.  “Please,” Aoba says, her voice down feather-soft and pleading.  “I’m—”  
  
Her eyes widen, her words cut off in a gasp that turns to sandpaper as he thrusts in, his cock spreading her open as he slides inside her with little rocks.  “Oh— _oh,_ ” she pants, because it’s tight and it stings and it’s good, _always_ good.  The heat it sends strumming through her veins makes her claw at the bedsheets, at the pillow next to her head.  She surrenders herself to the sensation as Koujaku enters her, as his hips eventually become flush with her ass.  “Koujaku!”  
  
His exhale is a reverent shudder; his fingers clutch her thigh so hard that Aoba thinks he might leave bruises as he pulls out again, a slow drag that sends heat to pool in her belly, and thrusts back in with a snap of his hips, a little deeper this time.  She rubs her cheek against the pillow, moaning as her body opens and accommodates him.  He pushes deeper, deeper, to the point where she’s no longer sure where her body ends and his begins.  
  
She moans, sinking her face into the pillow as his hips meet hers and grind up into her, shoving her legs even wider, as though he’s trying to meld their bodies together.  “Ao—” he starts, but his voice chokes off a little as she clenches around him as tight as she can so that he won’t say something stupid.  “Aoba, let me hear you--”  
  
He reaches down with one hand, wedging his fingers between her cheek and the pillow.  And she realizes what he’s trying to do as her head starts to move and defies him, shoving her cheek into his palm, making it slick with her own saliva.  “Don’t,” she breathes, the words her last resistance against his charms.  
  
He pauses, his hips stilling; she pictures him above her, head cocked, his brow furrowing with mock confusion.  “Don’t _what_ , Aoba?”  
  
“It’s—it’s embarrassing—!”  
  
“Hmm.”  Koujaku’s hum teases her, spreading inside her ear and dripping into her mind.  “Haven’t we talked about this before?  I love to hear you.”  
  
“Don’t make me—”  
  
She makes the mistake of turning her head, allowing her lips to meet Koujaku’s.  Their teeth clack, they both wince, but she doesn’t break the kiss until Koujaku pulls back, the soft smack when their lips part echoing around her skull.  
  
“Your voice is beautiful,” Koujaku says, and she moans as he lets go of her leg, slipping out of her.  He pushes her onto her back, settling between her legs again, and pins her shoulders to the futon with damnably beautiful hands.  “I don’t know how many times I’ll have to say it before you’ll believe me, but I’ll do it until you do.  I love your voice and I love seeing your face and _I love you_.  Okay?”  
  
There’s something frayed at the edge of Koujaku’’s voice, something fragile and homespun.  It sends an ache into Aoba’s heart and heat into her loins, and she answers him by leaning up, suckling the skin just below his jawline.  She reaches down to take his cock in her hand, to guide him back inside of her.  
  
It’s easier the second time, her body thrilling as she accepts him back inside of her.  But even then, Koujaku’s careful; she can see how he trembles, holding himself back.  He falls to his elbows, his forearms framing the sides of her face, and pants, eyes dilated.  “Aoba,” he whispers again, and there it is, the way he hides his face in the crook of her neck, the way he refuses to let her lift his head.  
  
“Koujaku,” she whispers.  She cups his face, pushing the bangs aside.  She traces the dark lines illuminated by moonlight, smiling gently up at him.  “I--love your body, too.”  
  
He falters, something behind his eyes shifting, and she finds herself looking into his eyes, feeling more naked than she ever has, more aware of her hard edges and flat body and the ever-present, ominous fog that she’s not actually her, that she’s some sort of freak her friends and family indulge.  
  
Koujaku smiles, and it melts her heart, searing away the doubt.  His hand reaches down to cover hers, fingers sliding and locking with hers.  
  
“It’s easier, isn’t it?” Koujaku asks her.  “When you love somebody else.”  
  
“Yeah,” she says, returning his smile.  “You’re right.”  
  
And she opens her mouth again, not quite sure what she wants to say, but the Koujaku thrusts up into her, abandoning restraint, and she’s absolutely gone.  Her eyes screw shut as every muscle in her body tenses, as orgasm overflows every pore and cell in her body, suffusing her in warmth and a brief, bright flash that softens into a warm glow.  She pants, coming back to herself; she barely hears Koujaku’s grunts, only realizes he’s come when he thrusts back inside of her slowly, almost lazy, and she feels wetness leak out around his softening cock.  
  
She shifts, wincing a little, and Koujaku pulls away, rolling onto his back and gathering her into his arms.  He presses her back to his chest, his left hand splayed in the mess on her belly while his right hand takes in the slowing, steady beat of her heart.  
  
She sighs, feeling her cheeks warm at the sight, but she reaches up nonetheless and spreads her hand along his where it rests on her heart.  “I meant it,” she murmurs.  “I love every part of you.”  
  
“Mmm.”  Koujaku’s tone is absent, satisfied as he nuzzles her nape and presses his cheek to her skin.  “I’m just returning the favor.  You helped me love my body, after all.”  
  
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out; the realization comes as a shock, as though someone’s touched the back of her head after rubbing their feet on the carpet.  A gentle night breeze sneaks in through a crack in Aoba’s window, playing along sex-warmed, slick skin.  His legs are tangled up in hers; his hands touch wherever they want, mindless of the shape of her body.  
  
“…Thank you,” she says at last, very softly.  She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips.  “For everything.”  
  
And Koujaku tightens his grip on her, leaning down, his answer a teasing play across her mouth just before their lips meet:  
  
“Thank you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying around with republishing this and one other fic I've written (after heavy rewriting). Maybe others in the DMMd fandom. We'll see. I've been so very tired lately...but still.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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